Finder's Bane

by Novak, Kate

  Joel couldn’t see any mine entrances or other indications of dwarvish presence. No doubt, he thought, the dwarves of Daggerdale are just as insular and protective as the humans.

  Finally they came to the heart of the dell, the center where people lived. It was dominated by a large stone manor, blazing with light from every window. Many small cottages surrounded the manor, a few with lamplight glittering in their windows, but most of them were dark. As they approached the manor, Joel could hear human voices. No doubt the larger building was the hub of the community. Outside its windows, firestars hovered like moths, blocked from entry by wire grates cunningly fashioned in intricate geometric designs Dwarven workmanship at its finest, Joel realized, both useful and lovely.

  Holly and Joel tied their mounts to a hitching post and hurried through the door before any firestars could flit past them. They stood in a large common room, occupied by at least fifty people, mostly human, the rest dwarves. Tonight the common room served as a local tavern. Most of the inhabitants sat on benches at rows of great oak tables, drinking from frothy-topped mugs and conversing, but a few more boisterous souls bowled ninepins in the aisles between the tables, while several others cheered on a pair of dart players.

  Upon Joel’s entry, a silence spread from the doorway outward as every person within, to the last solitary being, stopped what he or she was doing and eyed the bard. Their stares were most unwelcoming, even hostile. Joel stiffened.

  Holly strode forward and addressed the room. “This is Joel, a priest of Finder. He rescued me from a Zhent patrol and vanquished our pursuit. I vouch for him.”

  The hard glares softened slightly. Most of the onlookers gave Joel a dismissive nod and returned to their amusements and conversations. From what Joel had heard about the Dalesmen of Daggerdale, that was a better reception than he’d have gotten had Holly not spoken for him and as good a welcome as he could expect. Joel couldn’t help but note the conversations had become much more subdued in his presence. He might be tolerated, but it would take more than Holly’s word for him to be trusted.

  Holly made for a table by the hearth in the center of the room. About the table were seven large oaken chairs, richly carved with figures of men and elves battling against drow, dragons, and other fell creatures. The chairs’ armrests were polished smooth with years of use, and their backs and sides held more than a few gouges and cuts, as if they had seen battles of their own.

  Seated at the head of the table, in the largest chair, was a man dressed in worn leathers. He was an older man with handsome features, long brown hair combed down his back, and a neatly cropped beard. As Holly approached, he rose to greet her, calling out, “Harrowslough. Welcome.”

  Holly dropped to one knee before the man. Joel stood uncomfortably behind her, not sure what he should do. The older man raised Holly to her feet.

  “My lord,” Holly said, “allow me to present Joel of Finder. I owe the success of my mission to him. Bard, this is Lord Randal Morn, rightful ruler of the lands you now cross.”

  Joel’s mouth went dry. Although Branson had few kind words for the people of Daggerdale in general, the caravan guard had spoken of Randal Morn with the respect and awe reserved for a legend. Daggerdale’s beleaguered lord was a tough guerilla fighter who had been harrying the Zhentilar patrols for years now. The Zhents had a sizable bounty on his head. Wordlessly Joel bowed deeply. Not only had Joel not expected to meet Morn, but Morn was not what Joel anticipated at all. The lord of Daggerdale was several inches shorter than Joel. His physique was more like a farmer’s—lean, with muscular forearms. His movements were graceful. His hazel eyes did not pierce one to the bone, but looked dreamy and sad.

  “Joel has another title, my lord,” Holly said, filling in the void Joel’s silence created. “He calls himself the Rebel Bard.”

  Morn laughed as Holly stood there, grinning at some joke.

  Joel looked from Holly to Morn, confused.

  “Then it is destined that we meet, Rebel Bard,” Morn said, his voice as smooth as polished wood, “for I am known in theses parts as the Rebel Lord.”

  Joel flushed at the coincidence. Finally he found his voice. “I thank you for the opportunity to visit your fair land, your lordship,” he said. “It has a beauty unknown to many.”

  “He’s a polite one, Harrowslough,” Morn noted with a chuckle. “Would that the Zhentilar were so well-mannered.”

  “That could hardly be, sir,” Joel replied, “seeing how they come without invitation and leave such rude calling cards.”

  Morn snorted with amusement, and Joel allowed himself to relax a little.

  “You must excuse us, Rebel Bard, but I need to speak privately with young Harrowslough. Take my place here,” Morn insisted, tapping on the chair from which he’d risen, “and we’ll see that you get fed.” He looked about the room and shouted, “Kharva!”

  A dwarven woman carrying a large tureen wove her way through the room’s inhabitants. A younger dwarf carrying bowls and spoons trailed behind her. Randal Morn spoke some words in dwarvish, then led the young paladin away. They disappeared into the crowd, doubtlessly to another room far from prying ears.

  Kharva had set down the soup tureen and stood staring up at Joel expectantly. The Rebel Bard lowered himself nervously into Randal Morn’s seat, wondering if he were usurping the traditional throne of the rebel leader. Kharva’s assistant clattered a wooden bowl and spoon in front of him, and the dwarven woman, standing on a chair, removed the top of the tureen.

  The odor of beef stew wafted across Joel’s face, and his stomach growled. He realized his last meal had been over eight hours ago, and that had been nothing but dried fruit and hardtack. The beef stew before him was bountiful, with huge lumps of beef that peeled apart in delicious strings, potatoes and carrots that were neither undercooked nor too soft, tiny onions that glittered like pearls, and a rich broth flavored with wine. Another secret of the Daggerfolk, Joel noted, was that they could cook.

  From an apron pocket, Kharva pulled out a round loaf of warm, crusty bread and pressed it into Joel’s hands. Waving her hand at the tureen, she said, “Take all you want, but—” the woman hesitated ominously— “leave room for dessert,” she finished with a wink. A second young dwarf laid a brimming mug of ale by the tureen. Then all three melted into the crowd of the room.

  Joel tore off a hunk of bread and, sampling it, sighed. It was honeyed and fresh enough to have been baked that morning. He slurped at the ale, then set to work devouring his first helping of the stew, mopping up every last drop of the broth with the bread. It wasn’t until he’d worked halfway through his second helping that the bard realized he was being watched.

  While most of the dalesfolk had seen fit to ignore him, one, a giant of a man seated in a chair to Joel’s right, fixed his gaze on the bard’s every move. At first Joel just glanced up at the man between mouthfuls of stew and bread. The watcher had the sort of appearance Joel had expected from the legendary Rebel Lord. The man’s crossed arms were like tree trunks. His chest, clad in scaled armor, could have served a small room as a wall. The long black braid hanging down his back bristled with silvered spikes. His thick beard framed a permanent scowl. One eye was covered with a steel eye patch, while the other eye, sheathed below a sullen brow, glared daggers at the bard.

  Unable to stand the examination without answering it somehow, Joel ventured, “This is really good food.”

  The huge man did not respond.

  “You have a very good cook here,” the bard added.

  The huge man remained impassive and as silent as stone.

  Joel took a swallow of ale, then tried again. “Lord Randal has been a most gracious host.”

  Unexpectedly, the scowl deepened on the huge man’s face, and Joel began to feel oppressed by the silence.

  “Yes, sir,” the bard said as he served himself thirds, “this is really good food.”

  Although the lack of conversation left Joel with nothing to do but eat, he restrained himself
from taking a fourth serving. Shortly thereafter, Kharva came by to reward him with another flagon of ale and the promised dessert—fresh strawberries in cream. “First of the season,” the dwarf informed him with a smile, letting him know how privileged he should feel.

  After polishing off the berries, Joel slumped back in Randal Morn’s chair with his flagon of ale and turned his attention to the bowlers, pointedly ignoring the big man on his right. Finally Joel caught sight of Holly and Morn. Morn had stopped to speak with one of the ninepins bowlers, but he kept Holly by his side, including her in their conversation.

  Holly had changed from her blood-spattered wool outfit to an ornate yellow and crimson robe of silk, embroidered with blue and green peacock feathers, very much the style of a follower of Lathander. In Morn’s company, she seemed older somehow. Perhaps it was the intense look of concentration she wore as she listened to the Rebel Lord speak, or the respectful way Morn listened in turn when she spoke. Whatever it was, Joel realized he’d been very lucky in his choice of damsels in distress. The bard rose as Holly and Morn approached his table, but Morn waved for him to be seated, taking the seat to Joel’s left, across from the huge man who had kept a silent, scowling watch on his guest.

  “Has Bear here been keeping you company?” Morn asked, indicating the huge man with a nod of his head.

  “Rarely have I found so riveting a conversationalist,” Joel replied, straight-faced.

  Randal blinked for a moment, then grinned. “Aye. Once you get him started, there’s no stopping him.”

  “And knowledgeable!” Joel placed a hand flat against the table, “Why, I never knew there were so many naughty limericks involving Elminster.”

  Randal Morn chuckled, but Bear remained as impassive as if he’d been carved in stone.

  “Bear’s a good man,” the lord stated. “His job is to trust no one, so that I might still trust a few. His distrust has saved my life more than once in these hazardous times,” Morn explained, nodding his gratitude to the huge man. Then he turned his attention back to Joel. “Harrowslough tells me you’re a bard, schooled in the western colleges.”

  “Berdusk,” replied Joel, “but I’ve broken with their traditional methods.”

  “I fancy myself fairly accomplished in music,” Morn said, reaching for a lute by the fire. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

  Joel was accustomed to singing for his supper, though it was unusual to be asked to accompany his host. Warmed by the stew in his belly, the ale coursing through his veins, and Morn’s gracious manner, Joel was prepared to go to any lengths to entertain the Rebel Lord. He unhooked his birdpipes from his belt. He’d cut the reeds and fashioned this set of pipes himself in his student days. One teacher had criticized the instrument for its lack of standard tones, but it was Joel’s favorite. It made lovely music.

  “Do you know ‘Jonstan the Rover’?” Morn asked, strumming the first chord. The lute’s tuning was slightly flat, but Joel played a matching chord on the birdpipes, then blew the notes to the first five bars. Heads turned in his direction. The bowlers and dart players paused expectantly.

  With a signal from Morn, the pair played the song from the beginning. Fortunately Morn’s voice was better than his tuning. It flowed smoothly and melodiously over the words to the old dales tune. Joel played a third lower than the singer, matching his meter and pacing. Morn paused between the third and fourth verse, allowing Joel the opportunity to improvise a smooth bridge.

  At the end of the first song, Joel segued into “The River of Life,” an old nursery rhyme the mortal Finder had set to music. Morn needed only a measure to pick up the chords, then the verse, which gave Joel great pleasure. Ever since the Harpers had lifted their ban on Finder’s music, Joel’s god’s songs had flourished in the Realms. Next the Rebel Lord began the melody of “The Ballad of the Dream Weaver,” and Joel joined in without missing a beat, but the lyrics Morn sang were different from the ones Joel had learned. The bard noted them with interest.

  As the melodies shifted between the two men, the others around them grew quiet and all conversation died away. A few sang along, but quietly, in half mumbles. There were no outstanding voices beyond Morn’s, which was not too unusual, but it was odd that no one else sang out with gusto. No wonder Randal was anxious to play with another minstrel.

  At the close of “Dalesman’sHoliday ,” Joel launched into “The Toasting Song.” The tune was an old staple, and Morn strummed along as Joel set aside his pipes to sing.

  The Toasting Song” was what bards called a button song. Its chorus was easy to learn and repeat, and the meter of its verses so simple anyone could “button” any number of names and situations into the song. In general, it was used to thank—or tweak—one’s host, or to report on everything from the weather to the latest court gossip. Joel rose from his chair and sang the standard chorus:

  “And now we give a Toast, a Toast To guests and friends and hosts, and hosts For lies and tales and boasts, and boasts Of who can drink the most, the most!”

  Then Joel fired off the first impromptu verse:

  “We toast the folk of Daggerdale, Whose hearts and minds will never fail, Whose land holds wondrous firestars And truly great and noble bars!”

  There was laughter and a few cheers from the crowd, and some members of the audience joined in on the chorus. A few even smiled when Joel met their gaze. The bard cornered Kharva as she tried surreptitiously to clear away the tureen from Joel’s table. The dwarven woman frowned sternly as the young man sang a verse in her honor.

  “We toast good Kharva’s cooking skills, Which cure all human and dwarven ills, For with each sip and with each bite, We’re soon too stuffed to start a fight!”

  Kharva guffawed heartily, and laughter burst from the crowd. More joined in on the chorus. One table punctuated the last two words of each line by pounding on the table, creating an accompanying percussion section. Joel walked about the table until he stood behind his next victim.

  “We toast Lathander’s paladins, Whose lives are without stains or sins, Who’ll leap into every fray or mess, Provided they have the proper dress!”

  Holly squealed and covered her face with her hands. Joel could see the flush beneath her dark skin. Now nearly the whole house sang the chorus, each group trying to outshout or outpound the others. Next Joel circled behind the stoic form of Bear, still grim-faced and silent, his arms folded.

  “Let’s toast the absent Zhentarim, Who loose upon us evil grim. To know these fools and avoid their sting, Just watch for those who will not si—”

  Bear’s fist came out of nowhere. One moment Joel had a clear view of grinning dalesfolk, and in the next a small meteorite of flesh closed directly with his nose. There was a flash of light, then darkness. When Joel’s eyes opened again, he was lying on the floor. Holly was hovering over him, obstructing his view, but he could hear Randal Morn castigating the huge bodyguard.

  “What did you do that for?” the Rebel Lord snarled.

  “He insulted me,” Bear grunted. “Us. Daggerdale. He was mocking us.”

  “The only insult was the interruption of our song,” Morn snapped. “If you’d paused to look around, you might have noted that everyone else was laughing and singing.”

  Bear blushed deeply and reiterated, “I thought he was insulting us.”

  “Save your offended zeal for fighting the Zhentarim,” Morn retorted. Turning to Holly, he asked, “How is he?”

  Holly had placed her hands on Joel’s face lightly, but the pressure was nearly unbearable. Then the bard recognized the rosy-hued aura of the paladin’s healing touch. The sharp pain in the back of his head subsided to a dull throbbing and an unpleasant itching all about his nose.

  “Feeling better, Joel?” the girl asked.

  Talk about your rough audiences,” Joel muttered.

  Morn grunted agreement and reached out with his hand. Joel missed the hand the first try, but grabbed it the second. The Rebel Lord pulled the Rebel Bard to his
feet.

  Joel cocked his head at Bear. “If he hits the Zhents that hard, you’ll soon have no worries,” the bard joked. Then the room swayed about him, and he had to steady himself against the table.

  Take him to one of the cottages to rest,” Morn instructed Holly. “When he’s recovered and wants to continue his journey, Bear will serve as his escort, by way of an apology.”

  Neither Holly nor Bear looked pleased with that arrangement. Bear opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, but shut it again a moment later. The huge man nodded to his lord, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. A few members of the audience raised a mug to Joel, but most of them had returned to their earlier diversions. Another typical evening in Daggerdale, the young bard suspected.

  Morn handed Joel his pipes. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “Bear often sees threats where none exist. He’s a good man, though.”

  “So you’ve said,” Joel replied, taking the pipes with one hand while holding his tender nose with the other. “Really, though, you needn’t spare him for my sake. Holly’s been a wonderful guide.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I have need of her skills in the days to come. Yet I would prefer knowing you were escorted safely through my land.”

  “Bear it is, then,” Joel agreed, though only so as not: appear disagreeable to Morn.

  “I’ll have someone see to your horse while Holly shows you to your quarters,” Morn said.

  Holly led Joel to the door. Outside, the air had turned cool. The moon had not yet risen, and the sky was a jumble of stars. Not far off, hidden in the dark, a large cat snarled. Joel remembered the guardian that had scared his horse.